


Song 2

by benrumo



Series: Minific Requests [7]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Black Romance, M/M, PWP, Power Play, Sex Toys, Tentabulges, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 12:56:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/662240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/benrumo/pseuds/benrumo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave makes a beautifully uncool sound as your fist drives into his stomach. His eyes are so wide you can see the yellow all the way around his iris, even through his shades. You relish the look of shock on his stupid, smug face.</p><p>The TV remote tumbles from his hand, forgotten by the both of you. </p><p>Then Dave Strider grins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Song 2

**Author's Note:**

> A minific request fill for mastersfavorite, here on AO3 because the Tumblr update makes posting fics a pain in the ass.

“Give it to me,” you order, straining as far as your muscles will allow.

“Come on, kitty. Just a little bit more. You can do it.”

You wrap one arm awkwardly around his shoulder in a futile attempt to rock yourself just a few inches closer to where you desperately want to be.

“This isn’t half as amusing as you think it is,” you pant, straining.

“Maybe not,” he grins, “but it’s definitely more amusing than that shit you were trying to make me watch five minutes ago.”

“That is a great movie!” you hiss, claws swiping futilely just out of reach. “You just have no appreciation for anything that wasn’t vomited from the putrid bowels of the sewer system you fondly call Trollywood.”

“It’s utter garbage. I couldn’t even – _shit!_ – make that monstrous clusterfuck ironically bad if I spliced in Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff comics every point, mmph, point-three seconds. It’s completely irredeemable,” he says, powering through the insult grunting and breathless thanks to your latest efforts.

“Shut up!” you order, more concerned with your current goal than comprising a snappy comeback.

“And only you, Vantas,” he continues regardless, “could pick out something so utterly terrible. I’d be impressed if I weren’t too busy choking on my own bile just being this close to someone as grossly uncool as you’ve just proven yourself to be. And don’t even get me started on Will Smith’s cringe worthy acting, if you can even call it that.”

Now he has your full attention.

“One more word, Strider…”

“You’ll what? Yell at me some more? Newsflash, Vantas: that little trick of yours has worn out its wel—”

Dave makes a beautifully uncool sound as your fist drives into his stomach. His eyes are so wide you can see the yellow all the way around his iris, even through his shades. You relish the look of shock on his stupid, smug face.

The TV remote tumbles from his hand, forgotten by the both of you.

Then Dave Strider grins.

“You are so fuckin’ dead, Vantas.”

Dave lunges forward. He’s faster and he’s got the head start, but he’s pulling his punches. He still thinks he needs to thanks to how you’re a fragile little lowblood. (Which, let’s be honest, you’re normally grateful for.)

You’re slow. There’s no denying that, especially around all these goddamn indigos. (It’s like you just _attract_ highblood crazy.) But for your numerous flaws and failings, you’ve got one thing going for you. It’s not natural, bloodborn talent but years of hard fucking work. And that counts for something, even in this shitstain of a universe you were cursed to inhabit. It sure as fuck is going to count for something here.

So you’re slow and he’s got the advantage, but that’s not going to stop you. Not this time. You’re officially through pulling _your_ punches.

You bat his claws to the side and just fucking _ram_ his scrawny ass right up against the wall. He hits so hard he practically bounces back, but you’re there to catch him with your whole body. It’s graceless. It’s an outright chaos of limbs, is what it is. Dave’s struggling. He’s confused. Fear’s overriding his hate and some primal instinct has kicked in telling him to fight back for real. That doesn’t surprise you. _You_ didn’t even know you had it in you until you tried, but now you’ve got your highblood kismesis pinned against your wall and you _like_ it. His struggles sting, but you don’t budge an inch. He can’t move you. Fuck, what a rush.

You grab him by the base of the horn and force your lips against his. You’re so brutally clumsy it hurts, but it serves its purpose. Strider finally clues in. He stops trying to shove you off and turns his attention to ripping your shirt off your body. You’re so lost in the feel of his lips and his tongue that it doesn’t occur to you to stop him until the back of your shirt is in ribbons.

You grab his arms and shove them back against the wall. He pushes back, trying to break free, only to find that he can’t. He literally fucking _can’t_. He covers it up quick, pressing forward for your lips as if that was his original intent, but you’re not fooled. You catch the twitch of his eyebrows, the way his eyes narrow ever so slightly behind his stupid fucking shades. He’s not as opaque as he’d like to believe. Or as strong.

“I like this shirt,” you growl, dodging a second attempt to kiss you.

“S’that right?”

You’re almost disappointed by the lack of vitriol and snark. Then you feel him move.

You’ve got no fucking clue how he does it, but he somehow… _undulates_ beneath you, contracting every muscle in his abdomen and arching his back to force himself up. He uses the wall as leverage. His legs wrap around your hips and he pushes with everything he’s got.

You’re thrown completely off balance. You crash so hard you see stars, and he’s right there to make them burn all the brighter. He rips your shirt (mostly) off while you’re still too disoriented to tell your horns from your elbows.

Victory: Strider. But you’re not down for the count just yet.

You bide your time, by which you do _not_ mean that you get distracted by the feel of his hands as they run up your chest. You are also most certainly _not_ momentarily consumed by panic because everyone knows highbloods almost universally prefer thin, tall trolls like themselves and, let’s face it, you’ve never been thin. (Or tall.)

“Shit, Vantas,” he says, scratching his claws across your neck just hard enough to make your blood rush. “And all this time I took you for a toothless woofbeast. You should’ve said something. In fact, we should put out a memo right now. Maybe all your friends wouldn’t think you were such a useless joke of a troll if they knew you packed a decent punch.”

OK, you are officially no longer concerned with your appearance. What you are concerned with is Dave’s appearance. In particular, you think he’d look a whole heck of a lot better with bloody, swollen lips.

“Come here,” you order, but he’s already on his way down.

When he gets in range, you snap at him. He jerks back, grinning like the loon he is before diving back down on top of you. You take a swipe at his head, aiming to knock his stupid fucking authentic troll Ben Stiller aviators right off his smug face. You’re too slow and he’s too fast. He blocks you with a growl that you can feel with your whole body.

You grind up against him. His back arches so hard and so perfect as he grids back against you that you just want to drag your nails down his spine until he screams. Before you get the chance, he’s got your arms pinned on either side of your head. It’s strikingly similar, you note (and from the twist of his grin, you’re sure he notes too), to the way you had him pinned up against the wall. This is beginning to give a whole new meaning to the term ‘revenge fuck.’

“You haven’t thought this through,” you warn after licking his blood off your lips.

He catches on to your meaning quicker than you expect, but that doesn’t give him much of an advantage. You bowl him over like a steam roller. Any resistance he puts up is entirely futile, but he fights you every second of the way. He’s still got a hold of your wrists, even flat on his back. You take your time slowly lowering his arms inch by inch to the ground while he snarls and curses. He even kicks his legs to try and get free. One strike comes dangerously close to your half-unsheathed bulge, but that’s honestly the best he’s got. This is so fucking great. Why didn’t you think of this before?

He finally stops fighting in favor of pouting. Fuck, it is so gorgeous you wish you had taken Equius up on that offer of mechanical eye implants just so you could take a picture of him like this. Since you can’t, you’ll guess you’ll just settle for kissing him until you forget there was a time you were doing anything but. Dave ruins your awesome plans by dodging you at the last second.

“Restraint really isn’t the way this game works, dude. I know you’re basically a virgin, but pailing typically involves multiplayer motion control.”

“Typically,” you agree, “but not always. Besides…”

You slide your knee up between his legs until you can feel his bulge moving against the crotch of his pants. Then you slide it a little closer, earning yourself a very heartfelt protest.

“It’s not like you aren’t getting off on this.”

His face goes violet as he growls a proper growl, the kind that starts deep in the throat that a troll doesn’t exactly have control over.

“Don’t read too much into it,” he finally snarls. “You should be lucky you’re not completely hideous and I haven’t pailed in almost a perigee.”

“Liar,” you snarl back. “We both know you’ve got an open-ended conciliatory quadrantfuck in that walking over-clocked chitinous windbag you call a brother.”

You smother his presumably scathing remark by ripping his shirt mostly off and over his head. A single sleeve manages to remain intact, if completely separated from its source garment. You think that irritates him more than losing the shirt itself. He growls at you again, but you’ve already got your teeth on his throat. You jerk his head by his horn when he starts to struggle. That seems to be enough to keep him in line, at least momentarily. He’s obligingly demure (ignoring the thrashings of his bulge and the sticky dampness that’s finally soaked its way through to your skin) as you set about placing a nice row of teeth marks on his shoulder.

It doesn’t take long for the taste of blood and the feel of his bulge moving so close to yours to turn pants from an inconvenience to an unbearable torture. You lean back just enough to get your hands between you. The smart thing to do would be to ditch the unnecessary clothing and jump straight to the part where you’re paling his pan to supor, but doing the smart thing has never been your highest priority. You just wouldn’t be you if you didn’t find some way to fuck over every course of action you embark on.

In this particular case, you become shortsightedly overwhelmed by Dave’s plush, pursed lips. He’s practically fucking breathless already, and it just strikes you all of the sudden that you did this. You’ve got Dave fucking Strider pinned beneath you and panting not because of exertion but because he is legitimately that turned on by you right now. The thought drives through you like lightening, from thinkpan to bulge. You really need to kiss Dave Strider right now.

Unfortunately, you’re so zeroed in on your own presumed success that you completely forget about the little things. Like gravity.

You lose your balance and bang your noses together. It is painfully unsexy. And also painful.

Dave swears and shoves you off to the side so he can coddle his nose. This is of course fine by you, as you’re doing much the same. That really fucking hurt.

“Christ, can’t you do anything right?” he snaps, and that hurts in an equally unsexy way. “ Move.”

He shoves your shoulders back and goes for your pants, making a quicker and far smoother show of it than you could have managed even with a month’s preparation. Your internal complaints die quickly as he grinds his bare bone bulge against yours. You feel yourself unsheathe almost immediately. You’d be embarrassed if he didn’t twine around you just as fast as his tongue meets yours.

He grabs your head with both hands and adds a little more teeth to his kissing equation. You hesitate, then decide that fuck it, you are going to do whatever the hell you want. You grab his ass as tastefully as you can possibly manage. He laughs in your face (literally), which you take as a sign of encouragement. You grab his ass significantly less tastefully (and with both hands).

“Hey Karkat,” Dave says before immediately kissing you, which you think is pretty counterproductive.

“What?” you finally manage.

“My knees fucking hurt,” he complains, but it doesn’t seem to bother him so much that it’s worth it to stop mauling your face. “We gonna take this to your couch or what?”

Oh. Oh, shit. That’s right. You had a plan before he distracted you with his fucking remote theft and his goddamn pursed lips.

“Come on,” you order, dragging him up to his feet.

You kick your pants the rest of the way off and pull him by his wrist towards the back room, but of course the mighty Dave Strider follows no troll. He jerks his wrist out of your hand and strides forward, living up to his name in every possible way. Not that you’re strictly _complaining._ In fact, you are certain it would be impossible to complain about the view you currently have of Strider’s plush rump. You happen to be a very big fan of said plush rump. It’s just that you’ve got plans for other parts of him at the moment.

Dave doesn’t so much as flinch when you move up behind him. He does far more than flinch when you shove one of his shoulders back, opening him up for you to lift him over your shoulder. (You are getting bulge slime all over your chest. You do not even mind.) Dave swears up a veritable typhoon. Your only regret is that you cannot see his face when you bite him on the ass.

You toss Dave down on your concupiscent couch. He snarls at you, but you are beginning to suspect he’s coming to terms with the new power dynamic in your relationship.

His bulge has re-sheathed. That won’t do, not for what you have planned. But you can fix that.

You pounce into his waiting claws. (You then immediately berate yourself for such poor choice in mental narration. Who the fuck do you think you are, Nepeta?) He digs his nails into your shoulders as he flips you on your back. You don’t mind the switch in positions. In fact, it plays right into your secret evil plan.

Dave thinks this is it. He’s playing like you’re in the home stretch. Twice he tries to slip his bulge inside you and twice you move just out of reach. Each failed attempt moves the two of you closer to the headboard.

Fuck, but your heart is racing, and not just thanks to the obvious reason. Are you really going to go through with this? More importantly, is he even going to let you?

You kneed your fingers at the base of his horn, watching out of the corner of your eye. He purrs and presses closer to you, finally shutting his eyes, just as you knew he would. You take the opportunity to glance down at your other hand, searching for the tip of his bulge. You slip it between the tips of your fingers. Another quick glance up assures you Dave is still putty in your hands. You squeeze experimentally. Dave doesn’t seem to notice. Not that you expected him to. (You tried this out earlier on yourself with similar results.)

You squeeze again, this time harder. That gets a reaction. Dave moans, caught off guard. He looks down at you with an expression that could be considered confusion if it wasn’t so clouded by lust. You just grin and give his bulge a little tug.

Dave’s lips turn up. It’s a threat, you know it. For a split second, you think about backing off and calling the whole thing quits. That’s what you’d do, normally. But nothing about tonight is normal.

“What’s the matter, Strider? This too hardcore for you? I thought you Striders were into this kinky shit,” you taunt.

The response you get is beautiful. His face goes violet yet still as a stone. That’s when you know that this is it. This is the point of no return. You are so fucking going to make this happen.

Dave dives down, burying all his hesitation in your lips. This oh so incidentally distracts him from the way your free hand is moving towards the crack between the headboard and the conciliatory cushions.

Everything rides on whether your next move works. You practiced for hours just to make sure that when the time came you could do it right, but now your hand is shaking and slick with bulge goo.

Oh, shit, Dave knows something’s up. His eyes jerk up to your hand. You’ve got to do it. You’ve got to do it now.

You abandon his bulge to slide two fingers inside him. Dave goes rigid. His eyes squeeze shut just in time for your other hand to move. Metal hits solid flesh. You grind your fingers deeper inside him while you one-handedly secure the lock on the cuff.

“What the fuck…” Dave pants, getting increasingly irritated as he gets used to your fingers inside him. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

You go for his other wrist, but he pulls back. Not an unexpected response.

“What? Chickening out?”

Dave laughs.

“Alright. I get what’s going on. Baby Vantas is trying to grow his very first vertebra. Don’t worry, babe. I’ll hold your hand as we travel into brave, new territory.”

Dave holds his wrist out towards you with a mocking grin. He’s underestimating you again, but that works. You knew there was no way you were going to be able to go at this head-on. You lock his wrist in the other cuff and test the chains a little, just to make sure you didn’t do something stupid like forget to secure them.

“Too tight?”

“You’re such a caring dominant.”

You knock his legs out of the way and slip out from underneath him.

The view is better than you could have ever imagined.  You can just barely see the edges of his nook when you walk around behind him. Fuck, what a color. He’s so purely purple just outside the rim of his nook that he barely even looks real. You always thought airbrush made it look that bright, but fuck if they ever did it justice. (Maybe you had it a little backwards when you said you _attracted_  highblood crazy.)

Dave groans long and loud when you slip your fingers back inside him. You know he’s just trying to bait you, blatant showoff that he constantly is. It doesn’t cut much into your enjoyment. You kneel down, awkwardly spanning the distance between the floor and the couch without actually touching your knees to the ground. The couch is too high and his legs far too goddamn long for you to find a more comfortable position. You’re not planning on staying down here too long, though. Just long enough to settle a momentary whim. You pull his legs further apart with your spare hand and lick a long stripe of purple off his thighs.

Satisfied, you stand back up and settle into a rhythm. You slip your fingers inside of him, rubbing every surface with every possible combination and range of motions you can imagine (which, you quickly discover, is really not all that varied. You do your best to mimic the thrashings of a bulge, but to be honest, you’re not exactly sure what it does in there yourself. When you do it, you just kind of… let go and let it do whatever it damn well pleases.). Motherfucking miraculously, it seems to do the trick. Dave’s pornstar moans get a little less cinematic and a lot more breathless.

That’s when you turn back to his bulge.

“ _Vantas_ ,” he hisses as you thread his bulge between your fingers and squeeze. “Just… just fucking do it already.”

“Not yet.”

“Just how long are you planning to wait?”

You reward his impatience with a long tug on his bulge that stretches it just a bit farther than you bet it’s ever been stretched before. Then, when he’s mid-gasp, you slip your finger back inside him.

“Christ, Vantas,” he pants, “is the goal here for me to go solo? I hate to break it to you, but I’m practically fucking shameless. I’m not gonna hold back just ‘cause you haven’t even gotten your pail out yet.”

“Wouldn’t expect you to.”

You abandon his nook again to pull out the final piece of this master plan from your sylladex. The weight of it in your palm is heavier than you remember, but you push the doubts back almost as quick as they form. He is going to fucking love this and hate you all the more for it. It’s perfect.

You move the tip of his bulge where you can reach as subtly as you can manage. You are about a subtle as a newly hatched grub in a spiderlusus web, however, so Dave notices almost immediately.

“Vantas, what the fuck are you doing now? Look, here’s a tip from someone with a little – by which I mean a lot – more experience than you in this particular field,” he says while irritatingly twisting his hips and shoulders in an attempt to get a look at what your hands are up to. “You really don’t have to perform _every_ trick in the book in a single night. I know that must go contrary to everything you ever learned from the internet, but— ** _HOLY FUCKING SHIT WHAT DID YOU JUST DO?!_** _”_

Dave’s arms actually collapse, leaving him ass up and face down. You jerked your hands back the moment he screamed, but all you’re capable of doing now is staring at his bulge in stunned silence. You cannot believe you actually went through with it. No, really. Your brain is failing to process the visual data coming from your ocular orbs that insists that you really fucking did go through with it. Maybe if you look at it slowly, one inch at a time, it’ll be easier to take in?

You slide your gaze down as slow as trollmanly possible. His nook is shaking slightly, along with the rest of him. Down below that is the thick base of his bulge. Slower now, you follow the straight line of his stretched bulge down to the foam and metal monstrosity **_you_** clamped onto the very tip. The thick, round weight on the end rests on the surface of the couch, but just barely. The metal chain between the clamp and chain is taunt and quivering, just like the body attached.

Holy fucking shit, you really just did that.

Dave keens and swears. He rocks forward like he’s trying to crawl away from his lower half, but figures out quickly what a really, really fucking bad idea that is as the weight rolls across the bed, taking his bulge with it. You hear the chain clank roughly against the posts of the headboard and realize how badly he must want the use of his hands right now.

But, you also note, he hasn’t dropped his hips yet. He could lay down any second he wanted and take all the pressure off, but he hasn’t. He hasn’t said that it hurt either. Or to take it off.

Dave finally gathers enough of his wits to work his head under one arm. You watch his face from in between his legs and around the thin chain. He’s breathing hard through his mouth. His eyes are wider than you think you’ve ever seen them. But what you read in his eyes isn’t the negative reaction you were expecting.

You are… actually pretty fucking sure you didn’t screw this up.

“Vantas…” Dave starts, pulling together his poker face, but he can’t seem to figure out what comes next. In fact, he’s looking at you like he’s waiting for you to say something.

 _Fuck_. It hits you all at once. Dave’s waiting to see what your next move is going to be. Dave’s out of irony. He’s out of sarcastic remarks. He’s played out every move left in his arsenal. The cat and squeakbeast portion of this evening is officially over, and now he’s just waiting. For you, and what you’re going to do next. There’s nothing left but you, what you want, and what you’re going to do to him.

You give Dave a smile and reach for the weight.

“How does it feel?” you ask as you guide his hips back up where you want them.

You tug on the chain, robbing him of the ability to answer. His bulge is so wet it’s dripping down the clamp.

“I bet you’re not going to last long now.”

You hold the weight carefully as you climb up onto the couch behind him, sparing a moment to nip at his sides, making him flinch.

“Don’t you fucking dare move,” you order, then slowly lower your hand, forcing his bulge to take on the full, swinging weight.

You’re not sure if Dave even notices when you slip inside him.

You grab onto Dave with both hands, bending practically double over him to force yourself as close and as deep as you can go. Your hips bang against his and Dave practically sobs. Momentary panic that it’s too much flashes through the haze of being inside him. You worry maybe it’s too much over the rush of the way he grabs you with every last grasping frond inside him. Then sharp nails sink into your back. They jerk you closer by your flesh as you both moan. He rocks back against you and you swear you can feel the pendulum swing through him.

“Shit… I can’t. I-I can’t. Fuck, Karkat.”

“Do it,” you urge, mustering what little control you have left to flick the tip of your bulge across the soft, spongy nub inside him. “Go ahead and lose. I don’t mind.”

“This isn’t exactly a fair fucking game!”

“Like there were ever rules, Strider. Give up and get over it.”

You bite him one good, hard, long time, knowing that as great as this is, it’s not going to last much longer. You have to lean back to shove the pail between your legs. (You make a mental note to set the pail up beforehand next time.) Dave moans again and you aren’t sure if it’s thanks to the pail or the way it knocks against the weight.

Fuck, you wish you could make this last forever. But you’ll settle for the consolation prize.

You slip his bulge between your fingers and drag down, squeezing as you go. Dave screams and swears, and before you can blink his genetic material is rushing across your bulge. You ride it out, forcing yourself as rigid as you can manage to stay inside him. You clench your teeth so hard you swear you taste blood, and then…

Dave collapses beneath you. You hear something clatter to the ground. You take a moment to admire the way his genetic material moves as it settles at the bottom of your pail. It is so fucking purple. (OK, maybe this is bordering on fetish territory.)  You capchalogue your full pail before succumbing to lightheadedness and collapsing beside him.

“I win, dickbag,” you wheeze, winding down. You are so fucking full. You can feel your generative sac pulsing inside you with every throb of your bloodpusher. You’ll be lucky if you don’t release just from looking at him next time you go at it.

“Shut up.”

“You mean like you did last time? You’re just a sore loser, Strider. Predictable, actually. Given that you’re fucking… you.”

You are too spent to even banter properly.

“Yeah, well, I seem to recall you being a pretty sore loser yourself, Vantas. Throwing around… all kinds of shut ups and shit.”

It seems he’s in the same water flotation device as you.

“Oh, shit!” you suddenly remember. “The clamp!”

He shoves you back down on the bed.

“Like I’d actually leave that bulge-trap on any longer than I wanted to.”

“Wanted to?” you echo, getting a not-so -silent thrill from the fact that, yes, you did actually pail your kismesis’ brains out in the most kinky way you could imagine. (Well, alright, maybe just the kinkiest thing you’d actually consider doing.)

“Game over, Vantas. I’m not fueling your gloat-fest.”

Fair enough. You guess he’s done that enough for one night.

“You fucking loved it,” you can’t help but rub in.

“Stop smiling, nublord. It’s creeping me out.”

“Yeah, I really did seem to rule _your_ nub tonight, didn’t I?”

“That’s not… That’s it. I’m out of here before I embarrass myself further.” Dave slowly drags himself up. “This isn’t even fair. You know my brain’s all...” He makes some kind of vaguely rude hand gesture. “…hazy and shit right after. Can’t even put together a decent metaphor.”

“Who’s fault is that?”

“Yours!” he snaps before he realizes what he’s saying. “Christ, lay off, would you? And stop with the fucking smiling. I don’t even understand how you fit all those little teeth in there.”

“Smooth, Strider.”

He throws you the middle finger over his shoulder before going for his pants. Apparently, Dave Strider has given up on wordplay for the evening.

You relax back on your couch, content. Your sac is full and you have well and thoroughly proven your worth as a kismesis. All and all, it’s been a pretty good night.

“Hey.”

You jerk as something lands on your chest. You open your eyes and see the clamp, still sticky with his bulge goo. You turn to Dave, wondering if this is supposed to be some kind of final jab. He’s leaning on the doorframe, shirt in hand. Seems like someone’s getting his moxy back.

“You better keep track of that,” Dave says, “because next time it’s going on you.”


End file.
